


But my heart, it has eyes

by Guts



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guts/pseuds/Guts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You bust in like you own this town, your back burns with the roman numerals tattooed over it, you heart burns with righteous fire. You will take everything good in this world and give it to those deserving, you will go to hell because you draw blood with justice.</p><p> Your name is Terezi Pyrope.<br/>You are justice.<br/>And well, you rob banks, too. Same thing. Dave Strider, thief turned detective has been on your trail for weeks, its the end time. Its time to meet him in the middle of the street and narrowly avoid getting shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But my heart, it has eyes

**Author's Note:**

> http://eternal-elenea.livejournal.com/102733.html?thread=549453#t549453

You always get stuck on the town.   
You get stuck on the city lights on the streets, shining down bright and hard after rain.   
Everyone with their hair curled and wet, tucking their arms into each other’s.

It takes you like a whirlwind, and you get out of there fast before it feels up your heartstrings.  
Ellensburg didn’t even take you to dinner and Chicago never called again.

You did horrible, terrible things to Los Angeles.

But here you are again, grinning until it hurts with a cigarette almost out of your lips, legs spread wide, standing in front of the city’s biggest bank.  
‘Baby, you are the one’ you hum, as you set the baby bomb you made from shoe strings, an old watch and dynamite on the back door to the bank.   
Happy hour is your favorite time of day, dead restaurants.

The cook peeling potatoes in slow, heavy curls, her hair whisping from the morning rush. The waitresses outside smoking and the bars loud.  
The song was playing, metallic with tinny resonance on the speakers in the café.

It got stuck in your head, two hundred feet deep. You dug but you couldn’t get it out. You lose your resolve the way some people fail; spectacularly.

“you set my heart alight, sugarrrrr’ you sing the last part and step back, a piece of wall the size of your finger shoots past.

You step inside and this is where you just have to sigh,  
When the smoke billows up around you and you know everyone is looking at you in freeze frame horror, at your little tweed skirt, at your knives and mandible grin, at the machine gun you have trained on them.

“Hey toots, load er up, wouldja?” you say and the little girl in the headband scrambles away, her stilettoes clicking, clacking, thumping where she falls.   
You grin at the ladies and tip your hat.

They are really just asking for it, when you pinched the blueprints of the bank you couldn’t stop laughing for weeks.

Easy money, baby. Simple as pie, one wall. One safe, a couple sticks of dynamite and your’e in.   
The women are scrambling out of the room, the sobbing mouse with bangs tripping back in to throw the bag at your feet.   
Not as much as you thought, but that’s how it goes.

 

You hear sirens in the other part of time and start making your way out of the rubble. 

You are flung bodily into the wall, a hand grabbing you by your tie and slamming your spine straight into concrete.  
You grit your teeth and wipe your nose where it starts dripping blood.

 

“Hey lil mama.” The man says, his voice impassive but the curl of his lips almost a sneer.   
“Thanks for the blueprints, tex.” You rasp, wiping your hand on his shirt, your blood streaking the white.

“Aww cmon, that looks like lipstick. Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. Now would we?” on the last word, he flips his gun out, centers it on your forehead.  
You go cross eyes and he readjusts it as you sweat.

“never.” You grin.  
“So strider, you traitor. Is detective any better than outlaw?” 

“I think the proper term is piece of shit, not outlaw.” He smiles, eyes cold.   
The sirens wail closer and you bump his hips with yours.

“Semantics. I missed you.”

“I’m going to need to arrest you for wearing your heart on your sleeve, Miss Pyrope. That and terrorizing countless cities.”  
You squirm and he picks you up with two hands holding your dress shirt, slams you into the wall again.

“You’re not getting away today, Pyrope.”


End file.
